


Like Broken Glass

by Firondoiel



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Extended Universe, Justice League (2017), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt Clark Kent, Hurt/Comfort, Kryptonite, M/M, Post-Canon, Whump, Worried Bruce Wayne
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:53:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22522810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Firondoiel/pseuds/Firondoiel
Summary: It's been five years since Steppenwolf, and things are actually good for Bruce and Clark.Until they find themselves trapped in Bruce's nightmare and Clark's hell.
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 32
Kudos: 146





	1. The Beginning

It was a typical party for the social elite of Gotham: lavish decorations, expensive alcohol, endless small talk, and empty platitudes about the fundraising cause of the hour. Dinner had been served long ago, but the networking and posturing continued as the guests mingled. The buzz of chattering voices and the clink of cocktail glasses echoed through the main floor of the mansion. There was a rhythm to navigating these things, one that they all knew very well. 

But that rhythm did make special allowances for a few outliers.

Bruce Wayne worked his way through the room, impeccably dressed in a sleek gray suit and a jet black shirt with a matching black silk tie. He shook hands with a few people as he passed them, but never paused long enough to get pulled into their conversation. His eyes wandered over the crowd, and he offered insincere yet charming smiles to anyone who looked back. The hands on the ornate clock hanging on the wall moved one minute closer to 11pm when Bruce’s gaze landed on it. 

Time to go.

“Wait, wait,” Bruce snatched a martini from a passing server’s tray, “One for the road, as they say.” He raised the glass to everyone still congregating in the great room and made his exit into the long entry hall, nodding in the direction of a couple standing a little too closely together in one corner. Their faces flushed and lipstick smeared on both of them. 

He smirked, but then saw a figure through the giant glass doors leading to the front terrace. A figure with familiar slumped shoulders and hands awkwardly stuffed into his pants pockets. 

Bruce took another sip of his drink and went straight for the doors. The figure tilted his head a little to show that he heard Bruce approaching, but remained facing away. A uniformed attendant pulled open the heavy doors, and Bruce glided through, a little too smoothly for a billionaire that had drunk as many martinis as he had tonight, but he was on a mission now. 

He quietly slipped up behind his target and leaned down to whisper, "You didn't think you could get away with it, did you?" 

Clark turned to face him, eyebrows raised questioningly. “Get away with it?”

“Yes,” Bruce’s face was hard, but one side of his mouth quirked upwards, “Leaving me in there. Alone. It’s a dangerous crowd.”

“I thought you could handle this one,” Clark shrugged innocently, the gentle light from the lanterns hanging by the doors glimmered in his blue eyes, “Thank God you escaped unscathed.”

“Barely,” Bruce grunted, absently swirling his drink and glaring at Clark, 

“Whatever happened to the man who preferred to be a loner?” Clark pulled one hand out of his pockets to adjust his glasses. The light caught the silver band on his finger.

“People change,” Bruce said quietly, pointedly glancing at the ring.

“Sometimes,” Clark agreed. A gentle fondness passed over his features.

“Yeah,” Bruce took a long gulp of his drink, then allowed himself a small, genuine smile, “Let’s get out of here.”

He reached for Clark’s hand as he started to turn away, entwining their fingers as they walked together across the expansive stone terrace. The matching ring on Bruce’s finger pressed into his skin where their hands met. 

“Mrs. Frontenac cornered me for a solid half hour to talk about someone who did something’s latest jewelry line. I needed the air,” Clark apologetically squeezed Bruce’s hand.

“I know.” 

“Forgive me for abandoning you in your time of need?” 

“Maybe later,” Bruce looked at Clark and raised one eyebrow suggestively, earning an indulgent grin from Clark. 

A few guests milled around the terrace railing, enjoying the dregs of their drinks and the refreshing crispness of the night air compared to the stuffiness of inside. Bruce plastered on a smarmy grin and faltered in his steps just a bit. He nodded and toasted at the group while Clark took over guiding them.

When they reached the top of the grand staircase leading down to the lawn, Bruce stumbled and fell into Clark. His face landed in the crook of Clark’s neck, and one of Clark’s arms quickly wrapped around him to stop him from toppling over. A few drops of his martini splashed over his wrist and onto the sleeve of his suit. 

“Oops,” Bruce mumbled against the side of Clark’s neck and brazenly slid one hand under Clark’s jacket and around his waist, “This is a very unintentional turn of events.”

“Bruce,” Clark ducked his head to hide his amused smile from the voyeuristic stares of the other party guests. This was an act they had performed many times, but Bruce maybe took a little too much joy in seeing how far Clark would let him go. 

When Bruce first started bringing Clark to these events as his date, he took pains to gradually pivot from his clueless and philandering persona to a clueless billionaire who was hopelessly obsessed with his boyfriend. His sexier-than-sin boyfriend-- as Bruce liked to put it. Gotham and Metropolis socialites alike became used to Bruce’s drunken handsy displays with Clark, but if they thought he would ease up after the wedding five months ago, they were sorely mistaken. If anything, Bruce leaned into it even more. It was easier and even fun now that only part of the act was pretend. 

“Fuck, you smell good,” Bruce nuzzled into Clark’s skin, “Why did we come to this instead of staying home...in bed.”

The tips of Clark’s ear turned slightly pink at Bruce’s raised voice-- loud enough so that anyone standing nearby could hear. “Bruce…” he sounded scandalized, but his hold on Bruce tightened. 

Bruce lifted his head to look at Clark’s face. He saw wide eyes turning black, flushed cheekbones, and best of all, soft parted lips. A pink tongue darted out to wet them as Clark glanced down at Bruce’s mouth.

Jesus, his husband was beautiful. 

Bruce tossed his martini glass behind him. Not caring when he heard it shatter against the stone railing, purposefully aimed far away from any onlookers. He curled his now free hand around the nape of Clark’s neck and yanked him into a kiss. A very inappropriate kiss for being in public. It was open-mouthed, sloppy, and obscene, filled with promises of more to come later. 

Or sooner.

Clark inhaled sharply through his nose and jerked against Bruce when the hand on his waist dropped to boldly grab at his ass. The little muffled noise Clark made shot a burst of arousal through Bruce. He pulled back enough to nip and tease at Clark’s lower lip until Clark possessively wrapped both arms around him and tugged him back in. Bruce went willingly, his tongue meeting Clark’s hungrily while he continued to grope that perfect ass.

_“Sweet Christ, one day they’re just going to fuck on the dinner table in front of all of us.”_

_“You’d like that wouldn’t you, dear?”_

_“Pete once heard them doing it in the bathroom at the Hilton. How hard would it have been to get a room? There were literally hundreds an elevator ride away. Have some decency.”_

_“Decency? Like when you and your mistress were found in a coat closet last fall?”_

They were just whispers, but if Bruce could hear them, he knew Clark could as well. 

Sure enough, Clark stiffened self-consciously before pressing one more light kiss to Bruce’s lips and murmuring, “That’s enough for tonight, Bruce.”

Bruce gently squeezed the back of Clark’s neck then unsteadily turned to aim a lopsided grin at their audience. 

“Sorry, folks. Too much booze and a hot husband, what can I say?” Bruce shrugged with obviously fake remorse and winked at one red-faced woman, slurring his words enough to convince everyone except Clark that he’d had a few too many. “Lisa, excellent gin choices this year. Went straight to my head.”

“Also, went straight to my dick,” He added through clenched, smiling teeth, just audibly enough for Clark to hear. 

Clark went slightly bug-eyed, but quickly cleared his throat and also smiled at the other guests. His honest face was much more authentic and endearing than Bruce’s drunken leer. The Kansas in him couldn’t help it. “Yes, well. I think it’s time I took my husband home to sleep it off. Thank you for a lovely evening, Lisa.” 

“Yes, thank you. Sorry about the mess,” Bruce produced a small roll of cash from his pocket and lobbed it at the flustered attendant sweeping up bits of glass from the steps as Clark pulled him away. 

“Bruce,” Clark said as they went down the stairs together with Bruce clumsily bumping against him.

“Yes?” 

“You can take your hand off my ass now.”

“Not a chance.”

Clark shook his head, not bothering to hide his amusement this time. He thanked the man holding the car door for them and peeled a clinging Bruce away from his body so he could pour him into the back of the limo. Bruce flopped onto the seat, landing flat on his back. Clark gracefully climbed in after him. 

As soon as the door closed behind them, Bruce grabbed Clark’s tie and tugged him down into another kiss. Clark sprawled on top of Bruce, his hands slapping into the leather seat on either side of Bruce’s head to support himself and considerately keep most of his weight off of Bruce. 

Clark responded immediately when Bruce's lips moved against his. Slowly this time, more sensual but no less demanding as Bruce’s tongue teased at the seam of Clark’s lips, coaxing them to open for him. Bruce slid his hand from Clark’s tie up the side of Clark’s neck and into his hair, grasping it so he could angle Clark’s head just how he wanted it as he took his mouth. 

“You enjoy this far too much,” Clark’s voice was rough when he finally pulled away.

“So do you,” Bruce followed after him and latched onto his neck, nipping and sucking at the skin there. Clark gasped and moved his head how Bruce directed to make more skin accessible. Then he froze.

“Don’t worry about the driver,” Bruce said between kisses, knowing what Clark was checking, “He received instructions that the privacy shield was to be in place before Mr. Wayne got in the car with his husband.”

Soft laughter rumbled in Clark’s throat even as his skin flushed nicely under Bruce’s lips.

“Why, Mr. Wayne,” Clark said lightly, “I believe you are trying to seduce me.”

“And is it working?” Bruce leaned back to look at Clark questioningly.

“Well,” mischief sparked in Clark’s eyes, “It’s not… _not_ working.”

There was a pause. Bruce scowled.

“Shut up,” he huffed as Clark openly laughed at him. Bruce kept glaring, but couldn’t stop himself from smiling inwardly. Clark looked so fucking happy with his cheeks dimpled and the corners of his eyes crinkled with mirth. But he also looked entirely too pleased with himself. 

Bruce wormed his thumb between the knot of Clark’s tie and the hollow of his throat. He gently stroked the skin there before popping the top button on Clark's shirt with a small flick of his wrist. 

The laughter stopped, and Clark’s jaw dropped open in a silent gasp. Want glinted in his eyes as he gazed down at Bruce, the air thickening between them. Clark's fingers moved closer to Bruce's head by a fraction of an inch, still not touching, just waiting.

Bruce held his breath as he returned Clark’s heated gaze. Both of them fixated on the other’s obvious arousal, temporarily content to sit in the tension. Neither wanted to be the first one to break. 

Then Clark leaned forward the tiniest bit, barely noticeable. Bruce felt him swallow heavily beneath his fingers. That was a good enough surrender for Bruce. He quickly ripped the glasses from Clark’s face, safely tossing them onto the plush seat a few feet away from them, and looked up with a challenging smirk. 

“Well, Clark. I think-”

He was cut off by Clark surging down to crush their lips together.This kiss was hungry, full of raw need. Bruce ran his hands down the lines of Clark’s body, groping at the firm swell of his ass and pulling him in close. Their bodies rocked together as their rasping breaths filled the quiet of the car. The hum of the engine and the smacking of their lips were the only other noises until a short moan escaped from Bruce when Clark’s hand found its way under his shirt. Clark’s palm was hot against the bare skin of his lower abdomen. His stomach muscles jumped as Clark’s fingers traced light circles around his navel. 

The breath caught in Bruce’s throat when Clark rubbed over a long, jagged scar on the left side of his stomach. He wasn’t sure why, but that raised patch of skin had always been particularly sensitive. The first time Clark mindlessly trailed his fingers along it, Bruce had jolted and barked out a harsh, strangled sound. And Clark had been taking advantage ever since. 

Bruce’s dick now bulged uncomfortably against his zipper. Clark’s teasing fingers drifted lower, but Bruce pushed at Clark's shoulder, sitting up so he could switch their positions. Clark strained his neck forward to avoid losing contact with Bruce's mouth, but otherwise allowed Bruce to maneuver him onto his back. 

Of course he allowed it. 

Gentle, careful Clark. Bruce pecked at his lips once, then twice more before roughly shoving Clark’s knees apart and slotting himself between them. He looked appreciatively at the temptation spread out before him. Clark's hair was tousled and his eyes were bright, his lips slack. His chest heaved under his rumpled shirt. Bruce felt a self-satisfied pride along with a twitch in his groin as he drank in the sight.

“Jesus, Mr. Wayne,” Bruce husked.

Clark shuddered, biting off a sharp moan and pulling at his already loosened tie. “I didn’t take your name, Bruce,” he said, even as his lips turned upwards.

“No,” Bruce agreed, his voice gravelly as he knocked aside Clark’s hand so he could unknot his tie and pull it free. The material quietly swished as it slowly dragged around Clark’s throat, “I just like the noise you make when I call you that.”

Bruce dropped the tie on the floor then leaned down to mouth along Clark’s bobbing Adam’s apple, laying his body completely on top of Clark. Their chests firmly pressed together as they breathed each other in, their hearts beating rapidly. Bruce ran his hands over hard, muscled thighs and a narrow waist. He rucked up Clark’s shirt so his fingers could slip under Clark’s waistband and teasingly brush against naked skin. Clark moaned softly and wiggled impatiently against him. His erection poked into Bruce’s side. 

The clasp and zipper of Clark’s pants were undone in the blink of an eye, and Bruce pulled them over Clark’s hips when he felt Clark freeze again. He paused the undressing, but kissed at the exposed skin of Clark’s chest while he waited. His thumbs stroked over the jut of Clark’s hip bones. 

“We don’t have much time,” Clark said as he checked the surroundings outside of the car.

“We have enough,” Bruce yanked Clark’s pants down the rest of the way, quickly moving to trail wet, open-mouthed kisses on Clark’s stomach. 

“Bruce,” Clark exclaimed breathlessly. 

Bruce met Clark’s lust-blown eyes as he deliberately hooked his fingers in the top of Clark’s briefs and slowly lowered them until Clark’s erect cock was bared to his gaze, flushed and curling up towards Clark’s stomach, pre-come beading at the tip. 

He flattened his palms against Clark’s thighs, his stare dark and predatory as he slid one hand over Clark’s hip. It hovered over Clark’s cock for a moment before he let two fingers trace one long vein, barely touching the heated skin. 

Clark whined in protest, but Bruce kept his touch gentle, stroking up and back down with just those fingers until he went further on the upstroke to run them over the head. Clark sucked in a harsh breath, and his hands grabbed at the seat making deep indents in the leather. 

Bruce roughly thumbed at the leaking slit making Clark’s hips jerk, gathering pre-come over his fingers. He hummed appreciatively, eyes flashing up to Clark’s as he pressed his nail into the sensitive flesh, “So wet for me already.”

“ _God, Bruce…_ ”

That strangled gasp had Bruce grinding his own erection down against the seat, needing some relief from hearing Clark already sounding so wrecked. But he also stayed focused and used his now soaked fingers to slick up Clark’s cock. He wrapped his hand around it, feeling its thick girth against his palm before starting to pump it with a slow, steady rhythm. Clark rocked his hips in time with the strokes. Their bodies moved in perfect time with each other as gorgeous moans fell freely from Clark’s lips. 

Bruce stared, addicted to the sight of Clark losing himself in pleasure. He could easily let this drag on endlessly, teasing and edging Clark. Fuck, he loved seeing Clark this abandoned. He learned early on that the blush in Clark’s cheeks could spread down as far as his chest. Secretly, it was one of Bruce’s favorite things. Clark was thought to be a mighty god, and yet Bruce could make that invincible skin turn pink with a few words and even fewer touches. Now, Bruce could see that flush travelling down Clark’s throat and disappearing under his mostly unbuttoned shirt. His being only partly undressed somehow made him look more debauched. 

“Fuck, Clark. You look so fucking hot like this,” Bruce groaned and used his free hand to undo the top button of his own shirt, well aware that he was still fully clothed. “Wish there was time to test that stamina. Really work you over. See how much you could take before you’d had enough. Before you’d shove me to the floor of this car and fuck me.”

Clark moaned loudly, his dick jerking in Bruce’s hand.

“But you were right. We don’t have a lot of time.” Bruce leaned down and swirled his tongue over the head of Clark’s cock before taking him all the way into his mouth, the goal now to overwhelm instead of to tease.

Clark cried out and bucked once before Bruce’s hands were on his hips, pressing them down as a request to hold still. Clark obeyed, but he still whined and grabbed at Bruce’s hair, weaving his fingers into the graying strands. Then Bruce started to suckle him _hard_ , his tongue rubbing against the sensitive underside of his cock. Clark pulled sharply at Bruce’s hair as another cry was forced from him. 

Bruce smiled around Clark’s cock. He knew Clark loved it when things were just a touch too rough. Clark would never do the same to Bruce. He was always so cautious, so controlled when he took charge. But he loved when Bruce took advantage of his super-strength to push his limits. And Bruce was more than happy to oblige. 

He hollowed his cheeks and gave one more harsh suck before pulling off, his tongue flicking over Clark’s slit and at the nerves underneath the head of his cock. He rested one hand on Clark’s lower belly, just under his navel, reminding him to not move. His other hand steadied the base of Clark’s cock. Then Bruce wrapped his lips around him again and began to bob his head back and forth.

Clark arched against the seat, but he did keep his hips still for Bruce, his stomach muscles drawn tight under Bruce’s hand. A soft groan fell from his lips. His thighs trembled. Bruce wasn’t sure how much of that was from the orgasm building inside of him and how much was from the strain of holding himself back from losing control. But he was never concerned over the latter. His trust in Clark was complete, but also, he always did like the element of danger.

He went back to sucking and teasing with his tongue. The fingers he had bracing Clark’s cock slipped down to curl around Clark’s balls, rolling the heavy sac and squeezing harder than any human could take. It drove Clark wild though. His head snapped back, and he moaned.

“ _Bruce_.”

In response, Bruce hummed around his length, letting his teeth graze along the skin. He tugged at Clark’s balls, throwing every sensation possible at his husband. Clark’s stomach dipped under his hand as Clark inhaled noisily and didn’t release it, his body strung tightly like it was about to snap. Then his lips opened in a silent “o” and he was coming. 

One long moan rushed from him as he spilled into Bruce’s mouth. Bruce pulled back to suckle the head, swallowing him down as his hand left Clark’s balls to stroke his shaft, working him through his orgasm. Clark scratched his nails along Bruce’s scalp, his entire body tensing until one last wave of pleasure broke over him, and he collapsed against the seat, lying limp and sated.

Bruce slowed his hand and kissed the tip of Clark’s cock as he released him. He rested his head on Clark’s thigh and rubbed soothing circles on Clark’s stomach. 

Not only did he enjoy seeing Clark in the throes of pleasure, but Bruce also secretly relished this quiet moment afterwards. Clark was always soft and relaxed, peace and contentment radiating from his blissed-out body. 

Clark’s chest still heaved as he came down from his high. His fingers combed through Bruce’s mussed hair. When Clark finally lifted his head, he smiled down at Bruce with open and unguarded affection. 

A warm feeling tingled inside of Bruce. He wished he could lie there just a bit longer, but Clark had been right. They truly did not have much time. 

He crawled up Clark’s body to press their mouths together, their kiss short, but passionate. “Consider yourself forgiven,” he whispered against Clark’s lips. 

“But I didn’t even get a chance to apologize,” Clark cupped the obvious bulge in Bruce’s pants.

Bruce let out a small groan, but removed Clark’s hand, squeezing it once before letting it go and moving away. “Another time.”

“You’re patrolling tonight?” 

“It’s not that late yet.”

“Bruce, you’ve patrolled every night for the past week,” Clark frowned as he zipped up his pants, trying to put himself back together, “We’ve talked about this.”

Bruce sighed. He grudgingly remembered the _many_ discussions about him being too demanding of his body. It was harder to push himself to the usual extremes now that Clark was there to constantly persuade (or guilt) him into taking better care of himself. He still argued fiercely every time Clark started to insist that he ease up on himself just a little. But Clark proved to be incredibly stubborn when Bruce’s wellbeing was in question. Their compromise had been that Bruce would take one night off a week unless it was an emergency - a dire emergency - , and Clark would keep an ear constantly trained on Gotham.

Looking down into those concerned eyes now, Bruce knew he had already lost this fight without even trying. “Ok, _honey_ ,” he said dryly, “Looks like I’m all yours for tonight.”

Clark smiled gratefully, “Thank you.”

“You know Alfred is always delighted when you win,” Bruce grumbled. 

“Alfred is a wise man.”

“He’s already on your side. No need to lay it on when he can’t even hear you,” Bruce felt the car come to a stop and flung open the door. 

“Come, _dear_ ,” He held out a hand to Clark, “The night is young. We can work on your apology.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first attempt at writing both Superbat and a longfic. I love fics of Bruce and Clark getting together, but I wanted more where they were an established couple from the start. This story is also basically just a flimsy excuse for me to torture both of them. 
> 
> The plan is to update this fic every Wednesday. Most of it is written, and I am trying to make myself finish it by setting a deadline.
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Come talk to me on [Tumblr](http://www.firondoiel.tumblr.com).


	2. Waking Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The whump has arrived!

Light streamed through the gap in the curtains and fell across the sleeping bodies tangled together on the bed. Clark slowly blinked awake and turned his face into the warm, nourishing rays, shutting his eyes again. He quietly hummed in contentment as the sunlight rejuvenated him more than sleep. 

He sensed the calmness of the lake outside and heard the mist rising from its still surface. There was no wind rustling in the trees. Even Alfred wasn't stirring yet on the other side of the house. A bird was just starting to chirp from the other side of the water. Thankfully, it was far enough away to not disturb Bruce. 

Clark looked down at the man lying beside him. Bruce was on his stomach, an arm thrown over Clark's waist and one leg shoved between Clark's. His head rested on Clark's shoulder, his face backlit by the morning sunshine, but Clark could still see his closed eyes, dark lashes curled against his cheeks, and mouth parted as he breathed deeply. His heartbeat thrummed slow and steady in Clark's ears.

One of Clark's hands was trapped underneath Bruce's chest; so, he brought the other one up to lightly trace the webbing of scars on Bruce's right shoulder. He remembered the early days of their relationship. Well, friends with benefits was probably more accurate. It had all been just sex and lust with the unspoken understanding that they were just using each other to blow off steam. Clark had thought that he was the first one to feel something more, but he was shocked when he learned later that Bruce had feelings for him since Steppenwolf. 

Once he came to know Bruce so well, all the signs were clearly present, but it had still been a very gradual change. They didn't actually sleep in the same bed together for months. Once they started, they kept to their own sides, an invisible wall between them that they both wanted to breach, but were too convinced the other one would resent it. 

But one morning, Clark woke up to find himself being spooned by a sleeping Bruce. As Bruce’s comfort levels increased, so did his physical affection. On nights when Clark did not need to sleep, he would lie quietly and watch a slumbering Bruce shift towards him until their bodies were entwined. He still vividly remembered the first time that Bruce pulled Clark into his arms after sex with no hint of hesitation and then gone to sleep without a word. Nearly every first they had was instigated by Bruce. 

Clark carefully leaned forward and lightly kissed the top of Bruce’s head, settling back to watch him sleep, his bare body bathed in the golden light from the window. 

Nearly an hour later, Clark noticed the subtle change in Bruce’s breathing and the slight quickening of his heartbeat, even as his eyes stayed stubbornly shut. 

"Good morning," Clark said quietly. 

No response. 

“I know you’re awake,” Clark added with amusement. 

Bruce grunted and tightened his arm around Clark’s waist. 

"Rise and shine, Bruce," Clark gently dragged his nails up and down Bruce's spine, feeling him shiver against him before one eye opened to a narrow slit.

"If it's morning, it's not good," Bruce's disdainful voice was thick with sleep, "And I neither rise nor shine."

"So you've said many times," Clark chuckled softly, continuing to lightly scratch Bruce's back, encouraging him to wake up fully. 

He received another grunt for his efforts, and Bruce burrowed in closer to Clark's shoulder. Smiling, Clark ran his fingers over Bruce's forehead, down his nose, and outlined his lips. Bruce scrunched up his face and pulled away from the annoying fingers.

"We can't all have your alien proclivity for ungodly early hours," The fog of sleep lingered in Bruce's eyes when he opened them to glare at Clark. His mussed hair stuck out on one side, but he still managed a dignified grumpiness.

"Plenty of humans are morning people, Bruce," Clark had long stopped counting how many times he had made this argument. 

"I don't know any."

"And it's not so early."

"No?" Bruce arched a brow.

"No," Clark answered, trying and failing to look innocent.

"Tell me, Clark," Bruce's voice settled into a low gruffness, "How early is it _not_?"

They both knew that Bruce was well aware of the exact time, but Clark indulged him, "It's already 9:30, Bruce."

"God," Bruce propped himself up on his elbow so he could scowl down at Clark, "At least you're pretty."

Clark huffed as Bruce gently brushed his fingers over the upturned palm of Clark’s hand that had been stuck underneath his body. He swept over the curve of bone under his thumb, and then trailed along the veins in his wrist. The light touch over the thin, sensitive skin made Clark shudder. 

“Enjoying yourself?” Clark's cheeks dimpled as he gazed up at Bruce.

“Enjoying the view, as always,” Bruce brought Clark’s hand to his lips and kissed the back of it before swiftly moving on top of Clark and grinding their hips together. 

“Bruce!” Clark exclaimed, feeling Bruce’s hard dick rub against his own, a slight twinge flared at the base of his spine.

“You woke me up,” Bruce smirked as he slowly rocked against Clark, “I now have all this extra time.”

“It’s not like you’re a busy man,” Clark teased, ignoring the small pinch in his back and arched against Bruce.  
Bruce hummed and leaned down to kiss Clark, continuing to move their bodies together. Clark lazily kissed back and thought about pulling Bruce closer, but his arms felt heavy where they rested against the sheets. So, he left them there and opened his lips invitingly to Bruce instead. 

The discomfort in his back suddenly shot all the way up his spine and exploded in his head. The arousal coursing through his body melted into pain. He panicked when he realized his gasps of pleasure were turning into labored gasps for air. The luxurious bed beneath him morphed into something hard and unyielding. He tried to reach for his husband, but his hands refused to move.

“Bruce,”

It was supposed to be a cry, it came out as a faint whisper. All of his strength had been zapped, and he was left fumbling and weak like…

...like someone had brought Kryptonite into the room. 

Clark’s eyes flew open as he jerked awake.

\-----

Ten feet front to back. Ten feet from side to side. A long bench took up most of one wall. A bucket in the corner-- their captor intended them to be there for a while. Both the floor and the walls were a sterile white, recently painted, the streaks indicated that it was a rushed job. 

The ceiling was low, making the small space feel even more claustrophobic. There was a single door, enforced steel, unmovable. A camera was mounted above it on the wall. Standard for a holding cell, but Bruce glared into it anyway. 

What wasn’t standard was the long pane of thick, unbreakable glass in front of him. It gave Bruce an unobstructed view of the cell mirroring his own that held an unconscious Clark sprawled on his own bench. He had been stripped of his suit, just like Bruce. But while Bruce still had his undershirt and pants, Clark was dressed in a thin hospital gown that clung to his sweat-covered body.

He hadn’t stirred once in the half hour Bruce had been awake. There was a dark bruise on his right temple and his lip was split. Bruce’s jaw tightened. He didn’t remember Clark being struck. He actually didn’t remember much. It was supposed to be a rescue mission for a hostage situation in the basement of a Gotham hotel. Clark had heard it happening and joined Bruce for backup. Nothing had seemed off until the explosion. Bruce had been thrown back, but it had hit Clark straight on, which wasn’t usually a problem. 

But the explosion had been green.

Bruce breathed heavily in frustration. How much fucking Kryptonite could there be on this planet? He had diligently spent years tracking it down and securing it away, but yet again, he failed to keep it from harming Clark. 

He started pacing again. He had already studied every inch of Clark’s cell that he could see, trying to locate a green glow anywhere, but there was nothing to explain why Clark was taking so long to wake up. 

After Bruce’s forty-ninth lap around the room, a soft noise that sounded like his name came from Clark’s lips. Clark was finally moving. Bruce immediately pressed himself close to the glass, every one of his senses trained on Clark. 

There was obvious tension in Clark’s face and little strangled sounds coming from his throat. He was in pain. When his eyes suddenly opened, Clark tried to shoot up into a sitting position, but limply fell back against the bench with a groan. Weakness and pain. He dug the palm of his hand into his forehead. Headache. 

“Hey,” Bruce called quietly. 

One deep blue eye cracked open as Clark turned toward him. “B?” he sounded relieved, “Where are we?” 

“Working on that information,” Bruce let go of stressing about Clark being unconscious and moved on to worrying about him being awake. He needed information. “What do you remember?”

“The hotel,” Clark took a few more seconds than Bruce preferred to answer, “Something hit me. Hard.”

“The hotel is also the last thing I remember before waking up here,” Bruce crossed off a concussion or potential brain damage from his mental checklist.

Clark nodded and unsteadily propped himself up on his elbows to view their surroundings. Bruce watched silently as Clark’s eyes swept back and forth, studying his husband as he studied the room. He could see small tremors shaking Clark’s body.

“Well, this seems...not good,” Clark said when he took in the glass divider and a cowl-less Bruce standing behind it. There was a pause. Bruce could tell that Clark was trying to check him over with x-ray vision that wasn’t working. Clark blinked a few times, then asked, “You alright?”

“Fine,” Bruce had a few nasty bruises, but for him, that meant he was practically unscathed, “I believe there’s Kryptonite in there somewhere. Can you sense it?” 

“I…” Clark frowned, and his eyes glazed over, “No, it’s-it’s not here.”

Shit.

“Ok, it must be just outside the room,” Bruce started reforming the backup plans in his head, “It’s going to be fine. We just-”

“No, B,” Clark sat up with a groan, leaning heavily on one hand, “I don’t sense anything. Anywhere.”

“That’s not…” Bruce trailed off. This was not in his contingency planning, “Your symptoms…”

“I know, I know. It _has_ to be here,” Clark pitched forward enough so that his feet met the ground and he hunched over, resting his hands on his knees, “But it’s not, Bruce.”

More concern flashed through Bruce at Clark’s slip of using his real name, but he didn’t react. His identity had definitely already compromised, so there was no use pretending otherwise. 

“We will figure it out,” Bruce said simply.

Clark looked up and met his gaze as he took several long, slightly labored breaths, then nodded, accepting Bruce’s reassurance. He glanced down and noticed the hospital gown for the first time. One hand grabbed at the flimsy material, tugging it away from his chest a bit so he could see it.

“They took my suit,” he looked back up, frowning and confused.

“So, we’ll get it back.” 

“Yeah,” Clark’s posture straightened as strength seems to be slowly returning to him, “They took yours too.”

Clark moved as if to stand, but stopped as a loud buzzing sound blared. The door to Clark’s cell swung open with a bang, and three men wearing surgical masks covering the lower halves of their faces spilled into the room. They went straight for Clark. 

“Hey!” Bruce yelled, but they ignored him.

Two of them shoved Clark flat onto his back. Clark lashed out with his arms, and one man fell to the ground. One kick from his feet and another man thumped against the wall. The third man stood back holding a syringe. He quickly popped the cover. The needle flashed green. 

Clark paled, and then the other two men were back on him. This time, he went down easily, thudding against the bench. One man pinned his shoulders while the other one held down his legs. The man with the syringe waited for them to position him, then came closer. 

“Hey!” Bruce repeated, smacking his hand into the glass, “What is it you want?” 

The man holding down Clark’s legs flinched when Bruce’s hand cracked against the glass, but didn’t look up. The third man grabbed Clark’s arm and pulled it flush against the bench. 

Clark stared at the green needle. His eyes darted to Bruce as it effortlessly pierced his skin and the man pushed the plunger, injecting something into Clark’s body. 

It took effect immediately. Clark went rigid, grunting in pain. Fresh sweat broke out on his forehead, and his body jerked involuntarily. The men quickly released him and hurried back out the door. 

Bruce knew he should scan them for clues, for signs, for anything, but he could only stare at Clark. He had trained extensively to respond to unexpected actions quickly, but this was different. This happened far too fast. He vaguely heard the door slamming shut and the buzzing sound repeating as it locked. 

“Superman?” He yelled out, aware of the slim chance that Clark’s identity had not been exposed, “Superman, answer me.”

\-----

Clark heard Bruce calling for him, but didn’t have the strength to respond. Blazing fire streaked up his arm and scorched through his body in sharp, agonizing bursts. He had never felt pain this intense coursing through him before. He was dimly aware that his entire body was shaking. The thought briefly occured to him that he would choose being stabbed through the chest by Doomsday again over this torture. 

Underneath the pain, pressure banded around his lungs and tightened ruthlessly. He gasped. His system tried to compensate for the sudden weakness in his body, but nothing seemed to be helping. 

The agony took over his senses leaving him unable to focus on anything else. He had no idea how long he laid there in a stupor, his body twisting in anguish. But eventually, the pain reached a pinnacle and then mercifully started to slowly recede. The lead grip that weighed down his lungs eased a bit, and he was able to take one small breath. 

Clark took a few more tiny breaths then thought he might be able to turn his head to the side without it falling off. After a moment, he tried it and was mildly surprised when it worked. Now he could see a blurry Bruce. He took another breath, attempting to speak. 

“Bruce, it burns,” It was barely a whisper, pathetic and inaudible.

“What burns?” 

Of course Bruce still understood him. Clark could tell that he was already cataloging every scrap of information in his brain.

“Everything,” Clark regained enough strength in his fingers to grasp at the bench beneath him, trying to ground himself. 

“It’s going to be okay,” Bruce spoke with the calm and reassuring voice Clark had heard him use with scared children and injured civilians, “Listen to me, Clark. Just keep trying to breathe.”

Clark nodded slightly and focused on his breathing, anything to distract him from literally everything else. His shallow wheezes were too high and coming way too fast. With effort, he gradually was able to slow them down and move his breathing deeper into his chest. The intense pressure did want to release him just yet, but at least his lungs were taking in a bit more air now. 

“That’s it,” Bruce encouraged, “Does it still burn?”

“It’s better.”

“Any other symptoms?”

“Weakness is worse, chest is tight.” 

“Ok, just keep breathing.” 

“I’m trying.”

“Don’t try. Just do it.”

Irritation flared through Clark even though he knew exactly what Bruce is doing. The adrenaline spike from his annoyance gave him a small boost of energy, making the discomfort a little more manageable.

He let himself fall back into a haze of pain that slowly faded into soreness and exhaustion, with Bruce’s voice as a constant anchor. Bruce continued either giving him stern pep talks or asking about symptoms. When the burning settled into a lingering ache, it left Clark feeling completely drained. Every muscle felt like it had borne the brunt of a Motherbox explosion. His body had been left as a shell with his consciousness just happening to float around inside of it. 

“Superman?”

“Mmm?” 

“Status update?”

“Burning is nearly gone,” Clark winced at the roughness in his voice, “But I couldn’t lift much more than a pen or my Planet notebook right now.”

He sensed a sudden yet curbed motion from Bruce, like he was about to flinch, but just managed to stop himself. 

“Do you feel like you can sleep?”

“I am too tired to sleep,” Clark sighed. The pounding headache clamouring through his skull was loud enough to keep him awake anyway. 

“Can you at least rest?”

“Maybe.” Clark’s weary muscles tensed again. Something else was off. He thought for a moment then realized that his stomach felt strange. It was as if there were waves roiling inside of him. There was a hyper-awareness of liquid unpleasantly sloshing from side to side. He shifted slightly, hoping the movement would settle things down. 

“What’s wrong?” Even several feet away and behind a pane of glass, Bruce remained as perceptive as ever. 

“You mean other than the obvious?” Clark laid a hand over his stomach to help steady it, not sure what to make of the relentless churning. 

“Yes, we have to note all new symptoms,”

“Well-” The bubbling uneasiness inside his stomach hurtling upwards. 

He propelled himself over the edge of the bench. Sudden desperation gave him the strength to dive for the bucket in the corner. His hands tightly closed around the rim as he spilled the contents of his stomach, his frame seizing violently with every heave. The entirety of his insides seemed to be forcing their way up through his esophagus. It was painful, and tears stung at the corners of his eyes as the putrid stench assaulted his nostrils. He thought he heard Bruce calling for him again, but couldn’t be sure over the harsh sounds of his retching. 

When it thankfully ended, it left Clark with new aches and miseries. He took a shaky gasp of air and sluggishly sat back on his heels. He ran the back of his hand across his lips, wishing he could rid himself of that revolting taste. His overworked stomach muscles twinge sharply making him wince. Finally, he looked at Bruce.

He still stood in his place against the glass, brows drawn together tightly. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. Frustration and worry radiated from his every pore. 

“So, that’s what that feels like,” Clark said lightly despite the hoarseness in his voice, “Could have gone without knowing that.”

“What does it look like?” Bruce sounded terse, but Clark heard the concern underneath it.

“Um,” He would prefer to not look, but he leaned over the bucket again. “All liquid. Yellow greenish. And gross.”

“Bile? But your body doesn’t need food,” The gears in Bruce’s mind audibly turned, “Do you even make bile?”

“If that’s what this is, then let me assure you,” Clark gave a weak, rueful smile, “I make lots of it.”

“I’ve never tested for it,” Bruce frowned, “I’ve never even thought to test for it.”

“Bruce,” Clark saw the shame spiral beginning, “You don’t…”

His stomach rolled again with a vengeance. Maybe a slow, careful swallow would convince things to stay down this time.

It would not.

Clark snatched the bucket to his chest. The vomit inside sloshed against the side, and he retched again. The heaves were stronger than before. Even though he knew what to expect now, his system was already tired and sore. He wanted to cringe as his exhausted muscles were strained. And by the gods, how much of this bile did he actually make? 

When he finished, Clark rested his forehead against the edge of the bucket, coughing up spittle and remaining dregs of vomit. He wished for water, but banished that thought before he could dwell on it. 

This time, he uncurled from around the bucket and fell against the bench, letting his head rest against its hard surface. He noticed that Bruce was still watching him with that resolute, unflinching stare. He looked angry, but Clark knew it wasn’t directed at him. 

“I’ve missed something,” Bruce mumbled under his breath and began pacing the length of his cell. His fingernails looked like they were viciously biting into the palms of his hands, and his arm muscles rippled with tension. When he reached one end of the room, he instantly turned to prowl the other way. The back and forth was dizzying for Clark..

“Bruce,” his voice cracked from the scratchiness in his throat.

“What is it?” Bruce instantly halted, and his attention snapped back to Clark, “Do you feel sick again?”

“No,” Clark shook his head. The movement made the world tilt and his stomach lurched, “Well, maybe. I-I don’t know,”

“Breathe. Slowly.”. 

Clark inhaled apprehensively. His stomach didn’t rebel as he exhaled. He took another breath, deeper this time. When he released it, Clark noticed with shock that he was shivering. He felt cold. Did the temperature in the room suddenly drop?

He peered at Bruce. His husband seemed fine, still frozen in the same spot where he had stopped pacing and his piercing dark eyes trained on Clark. It was unlikely that the room temperature had changed. Clark sagged a little as he realized that his body had found another way to fail him. 

“What’s wrong?” The small crease between Bruce’s eyebrows deepened.

“New symptom for your notes,” Clark hugged his arms around his middle, “My body is trying to freeze itself.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed for a moment, then his jaw clenched, “Your face is flushed and you’ve stopped sweating,”

“A fever?” Clark grimaced when Bruce nodded, “I could have gone without knowing this feeling as well.”

The damp hospital gown provided no warmth and clung to Clark's clammy skin as shudder after shudder ran through him, each worse than the last. _This is ridiculous_ , Clark thought. He had seen Bruce through various illnesses, but they never seemed to reduce him to a suffering and helpless mess.

“How do you function through this?” Some of Clark’s frustration burst from him, “I am not letting you leave the house next time you’re sick.”

“I’m used to it,” Bruce countered with patient calmness.

“No,” Clark objected grumpily - Bruce’s placating tone only irked him further, “You will no longer be able to convince me that you should be zip-lining between buildings when your body is doing _this_.”

“Let’s discuss it when it happens,” Bruce said mildly, placing a hand on the glass. 

Clark looked at the hand. The distance between them was small, but a sudden urge to be closer to his husband overwhelmed Clark. He reached back and planted one hand on the edge of the bench, pausing briefly to breathe again. Then he determinedly pushed himself to his knees, and then to his feet. 

“Superman?” Bruce sounded like he had skipped over mother-hen mode and gone straight to over-protectiveness.

“I’ve got this,” Clark ground out between chattering teeth. He was lilting heavily to one side, but he was mostly upright, so he would take it as a win. Moving his feet forward was surprisingly difficult when the room spun this quickly. Bruce was silent now as he watched him struggle, but Clark could still sense his worry. 

Another deep breath. The room completed another orbit around his feet. 

He kept going and finally, _finally_ , fell against the glass, laying his left palm over where Bruce’s right hand rested. 

“I guess they don’t call me Superman for nothing,” he tried for a cheeky grin.

Bruce scoffed and rolled his eyes, but his fingers flexed against the glass, as though he wanted to force his hand through the thick pane to reach Clark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Comments are greatly appreciated. You can also come talk to me on [Tumblr](http://www.firondoiel.tumblr.com).


	3. Breakdown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late! A lot of real life stuff is happening, but here is yet more Clark whump! Please enjoy.

Bruce stared at Clark through the glass, keeping his rising concern firmly locked away behind a well-practiced facade of calmness. Even though he had just watched Clark be violently ill for several minutes, Bruce could now vividly see how much he was suffering. His stunning blue eyes that usually sparked with so much kindness and life were dulled with fever. His open and trusting face was blotchy and lined with misery. Thick, dark hair stuck to his forehead, slick with sweat. He was hunched over and heavily bracing himself against the glass with both hands. He looked so unsteady that slightest puff of air would probably knock him over, but he still stood there grinning proudly at Bruce.

His stubborn, beautiful Clark.

“Jesus, Superman. Sit down before you fall down,” Bruce gruffed.

Clark dutifully nodded and attempted to ease himself down, but his balance was already precarious, and he dropped heavily to the floor. He grunted at the impact and wearily leaned his shoulder against the glass. He tilted his head to look up at Bruce. “Join me?” 

Bruce lowered himself down, a good deal more gracefully than Clark, and also leaned his shoulder to the glass, legs splayed on the floor as he faced Clark. 

“So,” Clark said once Bruce settled, “Why didn’t you get a gown?”

“I guess they thought it would look better on you.”

Clark grinned again, but his eyes were serious. He started to say something, but he pointedly flicked his eyes to the camera behind Bruce. 

Bruce waited until Clark’s full attention was on him again.

 _I’m working on who has us_ , he mouthed, knowing the camera couldn’t see his face.

“It’s not like it’s a short list of possibilities,” Clark muttered aloud. 

_Did you see anything before getting knocked out?_

“Nope,” Clark shook his head, then grimaced, “Could you make the room stop turning, please?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Bruce gave up on silent communication, “You’re experiencing dizziness then?”

“Very much yes,” Clark squeezed his eyes shut and instinctively leaned closer to Bruce, his cheek squishing against the glass. The overhead light caught a bruise on his temple. It stood out angrily against his flushed skin. 

Bruce’s hands clenched. He needed to touch Clark, to inspect that bruise with his fingers and smooth the hair away from his forehead.

After a beat, Clark opened his eyes and gazed past Bruce. “Ma will be disappointed if we don't make it next week," he said softly. 

There was a pause as Bruce considered this. He knew that Clark was talking about their plans to fly out to Kansas for Thanksgiving - Martha always loved hosting them for any reason, especially for holidays - but Bruce was also very aware of the camera trained on them. It was highly likely that whoever had them already knew Clark's identity, but Bruce was not willing to risk it. 

"Look at me," Bruce watched Clark’s roving eyes until they focused back on him, "We'll make it." His tone was comforting, but his eyes pointedly flickered over his left shoulder. It was a small gesture, but Clark seemed to catch it. His gaze dragged above Bruce's head and fixated on the camera again. He stared at it in silence for several seconds, no expression on his face. 

"She's already got the turkey. It's in the large freezer out back," He continued, still staring at the camera. 

Bruce's brow creased. “Superman?” He said sternly. 

The cloudiness vanished from Clark’s eyes, and he straightened slightly. “I’m fine, B.”

“Yeah, you are,” Bruce didn’t know if he was agreeing or being sarcastic. If he was relieved or only more concerned. 

Before he could decide, a burst of static followed by the whine of mic feedback broke into the room.

"Hello…testing…testing. Is this thing working?"

Bruce turned around to look at the camera. His eyes narrowed. He knew that shrill, faltering voice, and honestly, he wasn’t exactly surprised to hear it. 

"Boys, yes. Hello! It's, ah, it's wonderful to have you both." 

"Luthor?" Bruce glanced at Clark. He saw the recognition dawning on his face as well.  
"Yes, Bruce!” Luthor almost sounded friendly, “How have you been?" 

"What is all this, Luthor?" Bruce ignored the question, his voice hard. 

"Always right to the point,” Luthor laughed gleefully, “I love that about you."

One corner of Bruce’s lips curled into a small sneer.  
"Ok, the point is…I'm back," There was a small awkward pause like Luthor expected a response. Clark and Bruce stayed silent, looking at the camera with identical glares on their faces. 

"…and I would like to welcome you to your accomodations for the foreseeable future. I hope they're to your liking. A lot of thought went into them."

Another pause. More silence.  
"Hm, tough crowd," Luthor’s delight was obvious despite his words, "Kal-El, you know how I have always believed you to be a threat, as it were, to humanity, a blight upon the world of mankind, a fraudster playing God? All that?" 

Clark shifted his weight against the glass, "You have made me aware of your feelings."  
"Yes, well. That's all still true." 

"Shocking," Clark said dryly. Bruce’s smirk widened just a fraction in approval.  
"Aww, you guys make such a cute couple,” Luthor remained unaffected, “I feel responsible for this, you know. All those years ago, I brought you two together to kill one another, and now, here you are living the life of domestic bliss. I really, _really_ have a gift." 

Bruce held in an eyeroll, impatient for more substance to Luthor’s ramblings, "Luthor, what-" 

"Please, Bruce!” Luthor immediately spoke over him, “I've waited too long for this for you to not let me enjoy it a little. After all, it will all be over much too soon."  
Something dark and nasty coiled in the pit of Bruce’s stomach. 

"Oh, Kal,” Luthor sing-songed over the intercom, “Been feeling a little less than God-like, have you?"  
"Most days, yeah," Clark shrugged, appearing to be unbothered despite his sickly pallor.  
"Ha, funny,” Luthor snorted, “Always choose a spouse with a sense of humor, Bruce. Well done." 

Bruce said nothing.

"All laughter aside, Kal,” Luthor continued. The timbre of his voice lowered as a note of seriousness appeared, “I don't think it will shock you at all to learn that you have been injected with a specially developed Kryptonite-based serum,"  
Bruce maintained his stoic expression, but angled his head so he could see Clark out of the corner of his eye. Clark's mouth tightened into a thin line, but no surprise showed in his eyes. He looked resigned, and Bruce hated it.  
"It took several tests to get right. That stuff really does not like to liquefy and keep its radiation qualities, does it?” Luthor was back to his listless, cheerful tone, “We're still not entirely sure on the dosage, but I guess we’re figuring out together, aren’t we? Fasci-truly fascinating stuff."

"Luthor-" Bruce began.  
"And you, _Batman_ ," Luthor spat, his voice suddenly angry, "You should have known. You should have seen it as I did. You did see it as I did, but...of all the men to think with their dick. I expected more from you, the self-righteous Bat of Gotham."

Several uneven breaths rasped over the intercom before Luthor spoke again.  
"I will-I will not be threatened. Not by you. Not again,” Luthor’s voice was small, as though he was speaking to himself, turning over every thought in his head before he said them aloud. “ _I will not_ ," he venomously hissed the words.

Bruce had heard Luthor’s ravings many times before, but a chill spread through his veins as he listened now. He had been captured before. He had been starved, beaten, and tormented many times. He had even seen Clark injured before. Yes, one time had been fatal, but he had always known it was going to be temporary. He had refused to let it be permanent. 

But now, his gut twisted. He tried to clamp down on it, but his instincts were seldom wrong. They told him that he wouldn’t be able to stop what was about to happen. 

"Bruce,” Luthor recovered himself, his voice stony as though he heard Bruce’s thoughts, “I’ve really outdone myself, haven’t I? I could contrive no greater torture for you than your own helplessness. Your own failure. You know that." 

“Don’t act familiar, Luthor,” Bruce forced himself to speak, knowing his silence would admit too much.

"Indeed,” Luthor said dismissively, “Moving on. Kal-El, you seem to be a little bit more on the not-dead-side than I was anticipating, so, please do us all a favor and remain seated calmly during this next injection. Or ah-or we will put a bullet in Bruce's head and leave his body on the floor in front of you. Should be pretty easy without his suit, yes?“

Clark tensed, and his eyes flashed. "I will not resist."  
"Goddamnit, Clark," Bruce muttered. 

"Wonderful! Let's proceed.”

"Luthor,” Bruce growled at the camera, “You know the League will come down on you hard and fast. If you go through with this, the greatest mercy you can hope for is to be left in the darkest corner of Arkham to rot and be forgotten." 

There was a long silence from the intercom. The crackle of static was the only sign that Luthor was still there. When he did speak again, he sounded calm, and for the first time, almost sane. 

"My dear Bruce, the consequences only matter if you care about them.”

The line clicked and went dead.  
The knots in Bruce’s stomach threatened to reach up and choke him. He swiveled to fully face Clark. “You could resist a little,” he said harshly.

Clark raised his eyebrows. “So, you could be dead a little?” 

“Better me than you.”

“Bruce, don’t you dare say it.”

“The world needs Superman.”

“He said it.”

“Damnit, Clark. It’s true, and you know it. I don’t say it lightly. It’s one of the things I believe in the most. The world needs you.” 

“I’m not going to resist, Bruce. That’s too much of a cost.”

“Batman can be replaced-”

“For fuck’s sake, Bruce. You are not so easily replaced,” Clark snapped. The flush in his face darkened with anger, “And you should know damn well by now that this manipulative, self-sacrificial bullshit of yours doesn’t work with me. So, stop being a fucking asshole, and shut the hell up.”

The fury seemed to rush out of Clark and he fell back against the glass, closing his eyes as if utterly drained. Bruce stared in stunned silence for several seconds, almost impressed. 

“You swore.”

“I swear.”

“Never that much at once.”

“Did I make my point?”

“Eloquently.”

“Good,” Clark opened his eyes, “Bruce, I know this won’t be easy. But I’m more likely to survive another shot of Kryptonite than you are a shot to your head. The odds are better this way. You know this.”

Bruce looked away and nodded curtly. He also knew what Clark wasn’t saying. Just seeing him slumped against the glass told him that Clark likely couldn’t fight back even if he wanted to. And Luthor would definitely up the dosage for the next injection. 

He realized his fears must show on his face because Clark softened and gave him a small, tender smile. The familiar, gentle affection on Clark’s face cut straight to Bruce’s heart, making it swell in his chest.

“Clark-”

The door buzzed. 

Bruce wanted to growl, to rage in protest as the door swung open. He wanted to see the three masked men cower in the face of Batman's wrath, but he did nothing. Staying silent pained him, but he couldn’t make this harder on Clark. He did rise to face the men as they approached. His deadly glare was terrifying, even without the cowl. The men avoided eye contact with him and focused only on Clark. 

Just like before, one took hold of his legs and another pinned his shoulders against the glass, even though Clark made no move to fight them. Bruce lowered himself to a squat so he could have a clear view of the third man taking Clark's wrist and forcing him to extend his arm. The syringe was brought out, and Clark flinched when the green needle punctured his skin. 

They didn't swab his arm before the injection. It may have been pointless from their perspective, but it still riled Bruce as he watched the deadly green serum disappear from the syringe tube into Clark's arm.

Clark's reaction was almost instant. He arched viciously against the glass, as much as their grip allowed him. An agonizing scream tore from his throat. It was the sound of unbearable pain, and it sliced through Bruce’s core to hear it come from Clark. He sat there, frozen, watching Clark twist violently against the hands holding him. 

The man holding his legs snapped his head up to look at Clark, startled by the scream. Bruce saw his eyes; a pale, icy blue with a shock of blonde hair falling across them, freckles dotting the corner of his left eye. The man glanced over Clark’s shoulder, and his eyes widened in fear at Bruce’s murderous stare. It was only a glimpse before the man quickly lowered his head, but Bruce commited the image to memory. 

They didn’t wait for Clark’s struggles to ease. They left him flailing against the glass, the back of his head thudding into it repeatedly, so they could hurriedly retreat through the door. It buzzed as it slammed behind them. 

Bruce was leaning forward even before the door fully closed. “Clark? Can you hear me?”

Clark didn’t answer as his head crashed into the glass a few more times. Then he went rigid, his entire body locking. The tendons in his neck corded with tension as smaller, but just as tortured cries fall from his lips in between gasps. He was obviously trying hard to hold back after the first scream. Bruce didn’t think he was going to get a response, but then Clark slumped forward, his head dropping onto his chest as he weakly nodded.

“Ok. Don’t try to talk. Focus on your breathing,” Bruce’s steady voice sounded strange to his own ears. There was no trace of the panic or worry racing inside of him. It felt like someone else was speaking, and he was just a spectator staring uselessly at Clark, seeing the muscles of his back rippling as pain continued to course through him.

Bruce crouched as close to the glass as he could, contorting himself in an effort to see Clark’s face, but Clark bowed his head further. It may have been accidental, but Bruce suspected Clark sensed his movements and purposefully pulled away from him.

“I’m here, Clark,” Bruce silently cursed the glass between them for the hundredth time, “You don’t need to hide from me. I know you’re hurting.”

The pain showed no signs of easing. They sat there for endless minutes with only Clark’s cries and Bruce’s meaningless words of reassurance filling the space. Bruce pressed closer and laid his hand over where Clark’s shoulder rested against the glass, hating that all he could fucking do was murmur reminders to breathe.

He bitterly wished that it was him in there suffering instead of Clark. He was the one accustomed to pain with decades of practice at functioning through it. Injuries like a fractured femur or broken ribs never stopped him from going out on patrol.

While Clark was stronger than Bruce, he was not nearly as familiar with pain. His encounters with Kryptonite in the past had left him weakened and vulnerable, but this was cruelly different. This was prolonged and excruciating. And Bruce knew that he severely lacked Clark’s gift for comfort.

They finally reached a point where Clark was no longer crying out, but sometimes he still jerked like he had been struck and breathed out on a sob. They sat, Bruce motionless and Clark gasping and struggling for each inhale. Bruce tried to keep talking, but Clark hadn’t spoken since the injection, which was nearly 20 minutes ago by Bruce’s estimation. 

When Clark’s breathing at last seemed to even out, he just curled in on himself even further, trembling. Bruce wanted to ask for new symptoms to add to his mental notes, but he bit down on his tongue. He decided to wait for Clark to say something before he started another interrogation.

There was a moment where Clark stiffened and took a very deliberate breath. Bruce thought he was about to speak, but then Clark flung himself forward, landing partway across his cell. He clumsily caught himself with his hands to keep from smashing his face into the floor, and started to vomit.

It wasn’t as violent as before, but the cold, dark feeling that festered in Bruce’s gut thickened and then clenched around his insides when he saw blood, not bile, staining the white floor.

Clark hacked once more then sat back on his heels, facing away from Bruce. His shoulders slumped, head down, and one hand clasped to his mouth. Bruce wanted to call to him, but it was as though a vice-like hand gripped his throat, its invisible fingers choking him.

Finally, Clark turned to Bruce. Fever raged in his pained eyes and drying tear tracks streaked down his face. His skin was ashen except for two flushed spots burning his cheeks and a disturbing dribble of red dotting the corner of his mouth. 

They stared at each other, taking one long breath together. 

“Bruce,” Clark’s voice was scraped raw, but Bruce still welcomed the sound of it, “I don’t-”

He cut off as his entire body spasmed like he had been hit with a powerful jolt of electricity. Bruce blinked. The ice in his stomach stabbed into his heart when Clark’s eyes went vacant and his body jerked again.

And again. 

It was only when Clark crashed hard to the floor, convulsing and his eyes rolling back in their sockets that Bruce ripped his voice free from its stranglehold and roared his husband’s name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Comments and kudos are both greatly appreciated. You can also come talk to me on [Tumblr](http://www.firondoiel.tumblr.com).


	4. Flashback

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, can I interest you in some hurt/comfort fluff this evening?

_3:56...3:57...3:58…_

The faint blue light of the LED numbers on the clock gleamed into the darkness of the room. Clark had been lying alone on the large bed staring at the time for the last several hours while listening to the familiar heartbeat down in the cave. He knew the very second that Bruce finally fell asleep sitting at his desk. 

Clark rose from their bed and moved soundlessly through the quiet house towards the elevator. This week had been hell for Bruce, like always. The days leading up to the anniversary of Thomas and Martha Wayne’s murder found Bruce becoming more withdrawn and coping by throwing himself into Batman as deeply as possible. He barely ate, didn’t sleep, and pretended that it was all because of whatever difficult case he managed to scrape up, never acknowledging the actual reason aside from a visit to the mausoleum on the day. 

This was the first year he allowed Clark to go with him. Clark stood close beside him as he laid flowers on the headstone, wanting to be supportive in any way, but Bruce had been silent. He barely looked at Clark before disappearing into the Batcave, where he had remained for the last 16 hours. 

Someday, Clark hoped he would be able to convince Bruce to find healthier ways of dealing with his grief, but this year, all Clark could do was wait patiently for Bruce’s body to pass out from exhaustion so he could pick up the pieces. 

He stepped off of the elevator when it came to a stop and smiled sadly at the sight before him. Bruce slept slumped over the armrest in his chair, his head hanging to one side. The angle was sure to give him a terrible neck pain that he would stubbornly ignore if he was left that way. But Clark was not going to allow that.

He carefully placed his right hand on Bruce’s cheek and eased his head up just enough to take away the strain from his neck. The pain that had tightly lined Bruce’s eyes for the past several days was gone as his pale face slackened in a dead sleep, his mouth hanging open slightly as he breathed deeply and evenly.

“Oh, Bruce,” Clark ran the back off his left hand along Bruce’s other cheek and lightly kissed his forehead. 

The array of monitors flashed as they scrolled through endless lists of data and video feeds. Clark leaned forward, still supporting Bruce’s neck, and tapped a button that shut off all of them with a satisfying click. 

Then, just as he had done for the past three years, Clark gently gathered a slumbering Bruce into his arms and strode back to the elevator.

“Put me down, Clark,” Bruce slurred, eyes still closed and face pressed against Clark’s shoulder. 

“I will, Bruce,” Clark agreed as he moved back through the house, “Just give me a second, ok?”

Bruce grunted unhappily, but made no further protests until Clark laid him down on their bed. He only let Clark get one shoe off before he swung his legs down to the floor and sat up. His shoulders sagged as he leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, staring into the darkness. 

“C’mon, Bruce. Let’s get you more comfortable,” Clark knelt to pull off the other shoe. 

“What time is it?” Bruce rasped. 

Clark reached for the glass of water already set out on the bedside table. He knew it had been approximately five hours since Bruce last drank something besides coffee. The clock beside the glass read 4:05.

“It’s four in the morning. Here, drink this,” He raised the glass to Bruce’s lips. 

Bruce started at the contact and then froze in confusion.

“It’s water, Bruce. Drink up.” Clark said quietly as he waited.

Bruce’s fingers came up to wrap around Clark’s hand on the glass and he sipped at the cool liquid, his body wavering as he straddled the line between sleep and awake. Clark rubbed his other hand over Bruce’s arm as he drank, ready to grab him if he started to tip over.

When he finished, Bruce pushed the glass away and licked at his lips, his hand lingering on Clark’s.

“S’not that late,” He mumbled as his eyes drifted shut again, “Just gonna take a shower. It’ll be quick.” 

“How about a bath?” Clark steadied Bruce when his half-hearted attempt to stand resulted in him listing to one side. He knew he would be the one doing most of the work, and it was much easier to keep an unconscious Bruce from falling when he was already lying down in a tub. 

Bruce thought hard about the question then nodded, “S’fine.” He tried to stand again, but Clark guided him to lean against the headboard, fluffing a pillow behind him. 

“Here, let me start the water running, ok? I’ll be right back,” Clark waited for another nod, then carded his fingers through Bruce’s hair and down his face to caress Bruce’s jawline as he got to his feet and turned towards the bathroom.

A firm grip latched onto Clark’s wrist, bringing him up short. Clark looked down to see Bruce staring up at him, his eyes still tired but gazing at Clark clearly for the first time in days. He took a few slow breaths as he unsuccessfully tried to form words, but Clark waited, placing an encouraging hand on Bruce’s shoulder. 

“Clark, I...” Bruce’s whisper trailed off, but gratefulness and pain were both deeply laced into the words.

Clark bent down and kissed Bruce’s lips. It was short, but still tender and reassuring. 

“I love you so much, Bruce,” he said when he pulled away, kissing the corner of Bruce’s mouth.

Bruce grabbed the back of Clark’s head and hauled him in again for a longer, firmer kiss, their lips parting with a small smack this time. 

“And I love you,” Bruce rested their foreheads together, his voice catching slightly. 

Clarks smiled, warmth flooding through him. He closed his eyes and leaned into Bruce, shutting out everything except the two of them. In a moment, he would run the bath, then get a weary Bruce undressed and into the tub. Bruce would fall asleep almost instantly, but Clark would take care of him. When they were both back in bed, Clark would curl around Bruce, holding him close until he awoke hours later. 

But for now, Clark let the room around them simply fade away.

\-----

Awareness came back to Clark very slowly. He could tell that he was lying on a hard floor, but everything else felt very fuzzy. His brain was wrapped in a thick, fluffy blanket dampening the world around him. He couldn’t quite shake himself free from the sluggishness; so, he focused on the floor. It pressed into his shoulder, which ached. It felt bruised, so he must have landed on it.

Did he fall?

Yes, he vaguely remembered everything blurring as he went down. 

So, his shoulder was there. He just needed to find the rest of his body. Moving down, he felt his lungs expanding against the floor. He was breathing. That was good. His hip also hurt. It must have also been bruised on the impact with the floor. Clark wasn’t sure if his legs were still there, but he was already too tired to check. Half of a body wasn’t too bad. He could live with that for now. 

He moved back up to his head. It was still a foggy mess. He tried to open his eyes, but they were stuck tight. His mouth was so dry. His tongue felt swollen up to several times its usual size and stuck to the roof of his mouth. Could he still talk? 

A groan vibrated in his throat and died on his lips. Words weren’t an option then, but his ears still worked. Kind of. An erratic buzzing noise filled both ears, but he had no idea what it was. He tried to focus on it, wanting to make sense of it. After several long tiring seconds, he decided it was someone’s voice. He had no idea what they were saying, but they wouldn’t stop talking. 

Finally, one word broke through his haze. It was his name. It was being said over and over. Clark panicked. Was he supposed to answer? His throat started to work again as he managed a swallow, and he doubled down on his efforts to understand the voice. 

“Clark, come on, sweetheart. Give me something, Clark.”

Sweetheart. Only his mother ever called him that. Well, except for Bruce on the very rare occasion.

“Listen to me, Clark. Let yourself wake up. Follow my voice, stay away from the fucking light or whatever goddamn shit you need to do, Clark,”

That was Bruce. He sounded worried. 

“Clark, please. I am asking nicely. I even said please. Wake up, and tell me how shocked you are. Tell me how your damned farmboy politeness is finally rubbing off.”

Clark laughed. It came out as a strangled huff.

“Clark? Yes, that’s it. Come on, babe. Please. You can do it.”

His eyelids finally cracked open. Everything was blurry. He blinked, trying to clear away the crustiness from his lashes. There was the floor covered in dried rust-colored stains. He winced as he remembered throwing up the blood. There was the bench and that offensively bright white wall. That meant Bruce was behind him. 

Clark wrinkled his forehead in concentration as he tried to rotate his head. It was slow going and the room swam nauseatingly, causing him to shut his eyes and take several long, slow breaths. 

Bruce was still talking.

“That’s good, Clark. You’re doing well. Just a little more. Come on, just a little.”

Clark tried moving his head again, but kept his eyes closed this time. Thankfully, it was easier. Finally, he had turned it far enough that gravity took over and his head flopped against the floor on the other side. He grunted. He was pretty sure that hurt.

“Clark? Open your eyes for me. Can you do that? Let me know you’re in there. Come on, Clark. _Fuck_.”

Bruce was desperate, almost manic. Fear rose through the murkiness in Clark’s brain. Things had to be bad for Bruce to sound like that. He forced his eyes to open. There was a Bruce-shaped outline a few feet away. 

“Hey,” he croaked.

“Clark? Fuck. Hey. Hey, babe,” Bruce was breathless. 

“Calling me babe a lot, honey,” Clark tried to smile, but wasn’t sure if his face actually moved.

“I’ll call you whatever you want,” Bruce’s voice was strained, but relieved, “How do you feel?”

“Groggy, aching,” Clark’s eyes wandered as he tried to pull things into focus. There was the same bench and annoying wall behind Bruce, who was kneeling right up against the glass, “What happened?”

“You were sick. You tried to talk, but then you began to seize. You fell and lost consciousness.”

Clark stared above Bruce’s head. There was something smudged on the glass. It streaked across the once pristine surface as if something had splattered against it. Clark frowned.

It was red.

Alarm rushed through him as his eyes darted to Bruce, scanning over his body before landing on his right hand. The knuckles were torn open and seeping blood. The fingers were bruised, swollen to several times their normal size, and some twisted at an unnatural angle. Clark’s heart clenched in his chest. He dragged his gaze up to Bruce’s face.

Bruce looked awful. He had already been a little unkempt from what Clark remembered, but the stubble on his face now stood out sharply against haggard and pale skin. A few limp strands of hair now fell into red-rimmed eyes. Bruce’s strong jaw was set just as firmly as ever, but Clark could see the slight twitch in that one muscle that betrayed how much he was stressed.

But Bruce’s eyes. The grip around Clark’s heart tightened as Bruce stared back at him. Bruce’s gaze was shockingly vulnerable, as though he had been flayed open to his soul and every anguish, every fear was forced to display in those haunted eyes.

“ _Bruce,_ ” he breathed.

Bruce flinched and looked away. He ran his uninjured hand through his hair, but those strands just fell forward again. He forced his other hand - the injured one- into a fist. Blood trickled from the gashes on his knuckles and dripped to the floor. 

Clark wanted to move closer, but his body refused to obey. His limbs were too heavy to move. “Bruce,” he repeated with more force, “look at me. I’m-”

“You were dead.”

The words were said softly without feeling, cold and factual. But they were enough to shock Clark. He wasn’t sure he had heard right, “What?” 

“I thought...you didn’t…” Bruce still wouldn’t look at him.

“Bruce, I’m-I’m here,” Clark barely stopped himself from saying he was fine. Bruce would only call him out for being a poor liar, “I know I was out for a bit, but-”

“Eleven hours, twenty-three minutes, and twelve seconds.” 

Another fact, simply stated, but it stunned Clark again. His jaw fell open as he struggled for a response. It _couldn’t_ have been that long. He remembered hearing Bruce yelling his name as he fell to the floor, remembered Bruce telling him to breathe, to listen to his voice before it all got fuzzy. He thought of Bruce having to watch his lifeless body for hours, unable to do a thing but count the seconds and wonder if-

_Oh God, Bruce._

While Clark’s mind raced through the horrifying images, Bruce continued to clutch his mangled hand into a fist, silently watching as the bleeding worsened. Every muscle in his body was taut, as though he might snap at any moment. Clark swallowed hard and willed his arm to move, inching it forward until he could just touch his fingers to the glass.

“Hey,” he said gently, “Give me your hand.”

Bruce breathed out a small puff of air through his nostrils and squeezed his eyes shut. Then ever so slowly, he uncurled each finger as much as the damaged tendons and possibly broken bones allowed. Clark was patient, keeping his fingertips resting against the glass until Bruce finally placed his on the other side, perfectly aligning with Clark without looking. 

“That’s better.” Clark encouraged. Bruce’s eyes were still closed, but Clark took what he could get. He looked at where their hands were pressed and wished he could pass reassurances through the glass from his fingers to Bruce. Both of their hands were trembling. Clark was still weak, but Bruce - Bruce was taking short, harsh breaths, his entire body shaking.

Guilt flooded Clark. This was never supposed to happen. He was supposed to be invulnerable, untouchable. He was supposed to be the one that never left Bruce.

“I’m sorry.”

That made Bruce’s eyes open. He looked angry, but traces of fear lingered in the depths of his dark gaze. Now that his terrors had been forced out of him, it was going to be difficult to lock them back up. 

“Don’t you fucking apologize to me, Kent.” He barked, his voice raw.

Despite the harsh tone, Clark weakly laughed. Bruce’s eyes first narrowed in confusion and then widened in concern.

“Luthor was right,” Clark tried to explain, “We really are quite the couple. Self-sacrificing, guilt ridden idiots.”

Bruce stared, then something seemed to release in him at the sound of Clark’s laughter. It was slight, but Clark saw his shoulders lower a bit and his breath started to come easier.

“Opposites may attract, but similarities last,” The tight line of Bruce’s lips relaxed, and Clark smiled in return.

He wanted to respond, but the fogginess was taking over, and he struggled to find words. It didn’t matter because Bruce started his interrogation. 

“How’s your head? You hit it on the way down.”

That reminded Clark of the pain pulsing in his head. Was it worse than before? He wasn’t sure. 

“I think it’s fine.” 

Bruce gave him a knowing look, but moved on, “Open your eyes a little wider. Keep looking at me.”

It hurt, but Clark complied. He followed Bruce’s finger with his eyes when Bruce told him to, waiting for him to be satisfied. 

“No concussion,” Bruce declared after a moment. 

“Things are finally looking up.”

“Indeed. What is your mother’s name?’

Clark raised his eyebrows curiously at the question, but dutifully answered, “Martha. Just like yours.” 

“Where did we first meet?”

“The gala. You were a dick.”

“It’s my charm. What was-”

“Bruce, what- is there...” Clark groaned in frustration. Why weren’t the words coming to him?

“Humor me,” Bruce was persistent, as always, “What was our first date?”

“The official or unofficial one?”

“The official one,” An actual small smile appeared on Bruce’s pinched face.

“Fancy supper club. You didn’t let me pay.”

“Of course I didn’t. I wanted you to put out.” 

“I already put out-- the unofficial date.”

“Yes, you did.”

The gentle warmth in Bruce’s tone soothed Clark, but then his head throbbed again. His eyelids were so heavy, and everything felt far away. He let his eyes shut and pressed his head into the floor, it was uncomfortably hard, but it was also cool against his aching skull. He may have been unconscious for over eleven hours, but his body already begged for rest. 

“Clark?” 

The fear radiating from Bruce made Clark pry his eyes back open. 

“Anything else you need to know?” His voice was thready and weak, and he hated it, “First kiss? Our proposal story?” 

“No,” Bruce shot a quick but hard glance at the camera on the wall.

Leave it to Bruce to be protective of those details. Luthor may know many things, but he was unlikely to know those intimate facts, and Bruce wasn’t willing to share them. He was much more of a romantic than Clark would ever get him to admit. 

The pain flared in his head, sharper than before. Then his skin flashed hot, and he accidentally let out a pained moan. He was exhausted.

Bruce pressed his other hand against the glass, his eyes boring into Clark.

“It’s okay,” Clark knew he was about to lose the battle for consciousness, and he would be damned if he didn’t do what he could to reassure Bruce, “I’m still me. Not disoriented. No brain damage or whatever you’re checking for. Just need to sleep. That’s all.”

“Then sleep,” Bruce didn’t look happy, but his voice was gentle, soothing, “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Sleep was already taking him, but Clark nodded and sighed softly. His fingers slid down the glass to the floor. The last thing he saw as his eyes closed was a bloody handprint outlining where Bruce’s hand rested on the glass. He stubbornly made his voice work one more time.

“Promise not to punch the glass again while I’m out?”

“Only if you promise to wake up again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did promise lots of hurt Clark and worried Bruce because that's how I indulge myself. :D
> 
> Comments and kudos are both greatly appreciated! You can also come talk to me on [Tumblr](http://www.firondoiel.tumblr.com).


	5. Delirium

Bruce watched until Clark’s eyes closed then sagged against the glass, his limbs crumpling underneath him. The last several hours had been a long, hellish nightmare, and they still pressed heavily on him, like a pointed, unforgiving finger driving into his sternum. All of the pain and burdens that came with his dangerous tragedy of a life caught up to him, and for the first time, he felt old. He was already well aware that he had aged, but now he felt so tired, even defeated. Now that weariness weighed deeply in his soul, just as it did when Jason...

He shuddered. The screaming wouldn’t stop echoing in his ears. Harrowing, bone-chilling screams. Every time he shut his eyes, he could still see Clark’s body convulsing uncontrollably right in front of him. Then every time he opened his eyes for the last several hours, all he could see was Clark lying frighteningly still. A mere four feet away from him at most. His breathing had been so slow and so shallow, that Bruce had to watch closely just to make sure his chest was still moving.

And the moment it looked like it had stopped…

Bruce groaned as the crippling severity of his helplessness overcame him again. He flinched and rubbed his temples, longing to escape from his own thoughts since he was unable to escape his prison.

He thought of the stages of grief. How he had nearly made his way through all five of them while Clark was out. The first hours he had refused to let himself consider that Clark might not wake up again, even while he could do nothing but stare at his pale, motionless body. That surety was eaten as time passed, and fury boiled up in its stead. Even though he knew that the door would not give way, he still tried. When he came away with bruised ribs for his efforts, Bruce took his anger out on the glass, hoping it would somehow shatter before him. The bones in his hand had cracked on impact, but he had relished the pain. It fed into his anger as he turned and raged at the camera.

But then his raging turned from promising Luthor death if Clark did not wake up to offering him a trade or a deal. He had even pleaded at one point, but everything was met with silence and the slow blink of the red light on the top of the camera.

Eventually, Bruce collapsed to his knees by Clark, looking for any signs of change and losing more hope with each moment that ticked past. All he could do was keep watch and speak to Clark’s still form, just on the slight chance that Clark could hear him. But he had talked himself hoarse after a few hours and had fallen silent, staring in despondency and counting the seconds for two more hours until Clark finally stirred.

God, that first sound from Clark. It had been a small grunt, so quiet, but Bruce was immediately sure he hadn’t imagined it. The relief that washed over him briefly overpowered the hopelessness, but the abject fear was still present. He still could do nothing except watch. But now Bruce knew that he was a long way from acceptance. He would continue to hope and look for a way out as long as Clark stayed with him.

For now, he continued to keep a careful count of the time as it passed. The information could prove vital for finding a cure. It also gave him focus and prevented insanity from taking him. Or maybe the counting was slowly making him crazy. Bruce scoffed mirthlessly.

There was no sign of Luthor or his men. Bruce suspected they had cleared out. He hoped it was because the League was getting close, but he feared that they had realized their work was done because Clark was not likely to survive much longer, and they had taken the precaution to relocate to safety.

Even so, his stomach clenched at even the thought of hearing the door buzz again. He couldn’t be a useless witness to another injection. It would likely kill Clark instantly.

Clark was only unconscious for a half hour this time, but he took longer to respond when he woke, and his eyes never quite cleared. He talked about Thanksgiving again and rambled about meeting Dick for the first time. When he started telling Bruce about something that happened in high school, his gaze was far away, looking through Bruce. The fever boiled in his brain and disoriented him.

With a sinking heart, Bruce quickly abandoned the futility of trying to correct him. He just nodded along and commented where he could. Inwardly, he continued to count the seconds, not sure what he was counting down to this time. Or unwilling to acknowledge it.

Silence fell when Clark tired of babbling and closed his eyes. Bruce thought he had fallen asleep again, but then he turned his head towards Bruce.

“I miss your heartbeat,” Clark said quietly, eyes still shut and his voice weak.

“What’s that?” Bruce asked gently, unable to tell if Clark was having a moment of clarity.

“Your heartbeat,” Clark repeated, “I miss it.”

“You don’t need to check in on me right now, Clark,” Bruce assured him, “I’m fine.”

“It’s so quiet without it,” Clark’s eyebrows scrunched together unhappily, “I’m so used to it always being there, in the background. Something to focus on so it’s not all so...much.”

Bruce said nothing. He knew Clark had the tendency to monitor his heart rate whenever he worried about him or needed to find him quickly, but he had no idea that Clark was always listening. That his heartbeat was a constant for him. He swallowed hard. Anger and resolve surged in place of the resigned apathy that had taken hold of him.

“Clark, listen to me,” he said roughly, “You will hear it again. I promise you that.”

A sliver of blue appeared. “I believe you, Bruce.”

There was no clear way to keep his promise, but Bruce knew that he would. This was not how things were going to end.

For now, Clark drifted away again. Bruce still dreaded seeing unconsciousness claim him and tried to ignore the whispers that said this would be the time he wouldn’t come back. But Bruce vowed that he would make sure Clark opened his eyes again.

\---------

Thirty-two minutes and eleven seconds later, Bruce heard a rumbling and braced himself. The doors to both of their cells burst open at the same time. Arthur and Diana stepped through.

“Bruce”, Diana reached for his arm, but he ducked by her into the narrow hallway joining the cells and rushed to the one that held his husband.

Arthur stood over Clark’s prone body looking alarmed, one hand outstretched, frozen, as if he was afraid to touch him.

“What happened here?” he asked when he saw Bruce in the doorway.

“Kryptonite poisoning,” Bruce rasped and shoved past Arthur’s hand to kneel by Clark.

“The fuck?”

He ignored Arthur’s quiet exclamation because he was finally touching Clark. The plane of Clark's chest felt so familiar under Bruce's hands, but the stillness did not. He settled one hand over Clark’s heart while the other reached up to smooth the unruly hairs from Clark’s forehead. He idly noted that he had seldom seen Clark’s curls this disheveled. They were damp from sweat as he carded through them while moving his other hand to Clark’s throat, searching out a pulse point.

Bruce waited.

The fever was gone, but Clark’s skin was unnaturally cold.

Bruce kept waiting.

Finally, there was a heartbeat. Slow and faint, but it was there.

Bruce let himself breathe again and took Clark’s gray face in his hands, carefully thumbing over the sharp curve of his cheekbones. This close, Bruce clearly saw the dark circles under Clark’s eyes, the cracked lips, the sallow pallor. It was all wrong. Even when Clark died from Doomsday, he still looked strong, peaceful; like he was merely resting. Now, an image flashed into Bruce’s mind of the deathly faces he had seen in hospital wards and on patrol when he was too late to a crime scene.

Pain clamped around his heart, and he leaned down to rest his forehead against Clark’s, his hands still cradling his husband’s face. He wanted to say something, maybe beg Clark to hang on, whisper that it was going to be fine, apologize for failing him. But he didn’t. He already made Clark a promise, even if the uneasy tightness that had gnawed away inside him for the last several hours refused to ease. For now, Bruce just breathed in the scent that was still distinctly Clark and willed some of his fight into the other man.

“Bruce?”

He looked up sharply. Arthur still stood a few steps back, hesitant to intrude, but Diana knelt down on the other side of Clark.

“Is he-”

“He’s alive,” Bruce cut her off before she could ask, “We need to get him out of here.”

He slid one arm under Clark’s back and the other under his knees, then tried to stand. His exhausted body groaned in protest, but Bruce was well-practiced at ignoring it. Even though he faltered slightly, he still made it to his feet before Diana and Arthur could even move to help. Clark’s head lolled against his shoulder as Bruce adjusted his hold. The muscle under Bruce’s jaw ticked.

Diana reached out to support them. “Bruce, let me help.” She tried to shift Clark’s dead weight into her arms, but Bruce yanked him back and tightened his hold. A low growl that was pure Batman instinctively rumbled in his throat.

“I have him.” His voice was steel.

A hand touched his shoulder. “It’ll be faster, Bats.” Arthur was unusually gentle. “No offense, man, but you look worse than shit.”

“I’ve got him,” Bruce repeated, his grip unyielding.

“Ok,” Diana nodded once, understanding in her eyes. “We have a clear way out. We can move freely.”

“Good,” Bruce swept out of the cell, smoothly angling so that Clark’s body easily cleared the doorway. Despite his initial unsteadiness, he moved with graceful certainty down the hallway.

“Just follow me,” Arthur muttered sarcastically from behind him. Bruce could sense the glare he got from Diana for that comment.

“To your right and take the stairs,” she said to Bruce.

He moved up the stairs quickly, but was careful not to jostle Clark. He saw that they were in what used to be a factory. The crumbling dusty machinery hadn’t been used in some time. It looked like most of Luthor’s money went into refitting the basement into the holding cells as well as the survelleillence desk set up by the stairs.

And the lab beyond that in the far corner.

Bruce’s eyes roved over the contents on the lab table. Nothing useful. Empty bottles, dirty equipment. No notes, no laptops. Luthor’s men knew rescue was coming and cleared out quickly and cleanly.

“Flash searched the place,” Diana offered. “They didn’t leave anything behind.”

Bruce kept walking, his lips set in a thin line. Their footsteps echoed in the large room. With Diana’s quiet guidance, they came to a door. Arthur moved to open it, but Bruce didn’t slow his stride and forced it open with a kick. Arthur swore as Bruce ignored him and stepped outside into the factory yard. The Flying Fox waited for them at the other end beyond the decrepit wall encircling the factory.

Barry was waiting for them on the plane. His eyes widened when he saw Bruce carrying Clark, but any questions he had died on his lips at the sight of Bruce’s face.

Bruce said nothing as he walked past him and straight to the medbay. He eased Clark down onto the gurney. Clark remained unresponsive and so _still_. Bruce gently touched one cheek then turned to Barry and Arthur who lingered in the doorway. “Get the sunlamps on him,” he ordered as he brushed past them to the cockpit.

The pilot seat groaned beneath him as he sat down heavily. His fingers sped across the buttons. Every inch of this place needed to be scanned. He had to see if there was anything that might be useful. The screens came to life, rapidly displaying data for Bruce to study. There had to be something.

Diana’s footsteps sounded behind him, but his eyes stayed on the screens as he attempted to activate the sensors in his missing suit. The bitterly familiar feeling of nausea and helplessness stole over him as he came up with nothing.

A strangled noise punched its way through the knot in his throat, and he slammed his mangled right hand down onto the armrest, not even flinching when it made contact.

The warmth of Diana’s palm settled on his shoulder.

“I don’t know what to do.” He heard the desperate words pour out of him, and like everything else, he was powerless to stop them. “Diana, there’s nothing here. Clark could- I don’t...I don’t know what to do.”

“We will help him, Bruce.” Diana was confident, just like always. “You are exhausted. Go sit with Clark. I will get us back.”

“I have research to do,” he said hoarsely, his voice strained with more than overuse.

“Bruce…”

He could hear the reproach coming. Rather than listen, he stood, making her hand fall from his shoulder. “Get us to Gotham,” he cut her off, already moving to the array of screens behind the cockpit.

Diana grabbed his wrist, easily pulling him up short. He stumbled slightly.

“You should stay with-”

“ _Don’t_ ,” Bruce growled. He knew his body longed to rest, but it could be pushed much farther. All he had done for the past two days was sit and watch. Now that he could actually do something, he had the fire of determination raging through him. He would not be told to continue sitting and watching.

He looked Diana in the eye. Daring her to even try to force him. Demanding that she release him. Asking for her understanding.

Diana never wavered when faced with his anger or backed down from any challenge. But she seemed to read everything in his face. She softened and nodded before letting go of his wrist.

Bruce didn’t give her another thought as he quickly walked away. Within seconds, he had searches and analyses running on every monitor. Once the plane was in the air, he distantly heard Diana giving an update to Victor and Alfred. He had already sent information and research instructions to both of them.

“Let me see your hand.” Diana was by his side again. A medkit in her hand.

He shook his head. “I need the use of my hand, not a brace.”

The slightest pinch of frustration appeared on Diana’s forehead. Enough that Bruce could see it from the corner of his eye, not once looking away from the screen in front of him. He hadn’t noticed her turning on the autopilot, but it didn’t matter.

“Alright,” Diana acquiesced finally. “But you will at least let me clean it.”

Diana was patient, but her stubbornness could rival Bruce whenever she deemed it necessary. Grudgingly, he extended his hand in her direction, allowing her to work on it while he kept his attention on devising the most effective treatment for Clark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi *embarrassed wave*
> 
> I swear, I had this entire story mapped out, but then hit a plot point that just didn't work for me anymore which derailed the whole thing. BUT I am overwhelmed with all of the positive comments you all have left. Some of you even coming to tumblr to let me know that you hoped this story would be continued. A huge thank you to you all. After breaking from a story, I am very good at convincing myself that my writing was shitty anyway and that there's no point going back to it. 
> 
> But I do love this story and this couple very much, so I do plan to finish it. I hope you enjoyed this angsty Bruce chapter. <3


End file.
